


you look like a movie, you sound like a song

by pineapple_fineapple



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harringrove, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, LMAO it's not really but also like lowkey, M/M, Sad Boys Falling in Love, but they are mentioned A Bit, im tagging it bc I would consider it kinda studyy, their parents aren't huge parts btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-16 20:42:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21277418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapple_fineapple/pseuds/pineapple_fineapple
Summary: Steve had never been in love before, like he'd once thought.But god, it felt good.





	you look like a movie, you sound like a song

**Author's Note:**

> i was gonna wait to try and finish this, yanno, write some more, take it further, but I just haven't and it's been A Long Time. it's just sitting in my drafts. I'm just gonna post it. I keep meaning to write more to it but I wrote it all at once sitting in my car at the park and I just can't get on that same train I was on, rip
> 
> anyway, here's what I got

Steve had seen hundreds of romance movies by the time he was nine years old. His mother loved them--_loved_ them. She would sit and watch them all day, sat primly and beautifully on their sofa, her heels always on, her makeup always done, her hair always tied in its elegant ponytail; Steve had admired his mother's beauty for as long as he could remember, and when he was four and would sit in the floor and look up at her, thinking how pretty she was, her winged eyes would stay focused on their tv, and she would rarely draw them away to see Steve. He'd often imagined himself a ghost in their too-large (too empty) living room, and his mother had often acted as though she was one too, still and silent and lifeless, but always watching her romances.

Steve thought it was strange, almost, how much she watched them, when she herself was _not_ a romantic person. She would kiss his father when he came home, and ask how his day was; and that was it. Steve usually got hugs on his birthday, and hands on his shoulders for family portraits, and once, even his father had knelt and wrapped 7 year old Steve in a short and stiff embrace.

Romance and love and passion, as far as Steve had seen, were fireworks in your heart and stars in your eyes and butterflies in your belly--exciting, fast, and full of laugh tracks and kisses being pressed on palms and cheeks and eyelids.

It wasn't until Steve was older and thought back to he and his mothers days in the living room watching romances that he remembered her eyes and rare smiles were always watery. Her hands always tightly wrapped together in her lap, and her attention rarely directed anywhere else.

It wasn't until Steve was twelve that he realized his mother and father werent in love, and hadn't been for some time--if ever.

The love on tv was always so explosive and happy and free, and usually accompanied by a soundtrack.

The love in his house was much like the actual house itself--stiff, a pretty exterior, and filled with artificiality and empty of authenticity, and often chilly when night came.

Steve hated romance movies--but they were what he drew from when it came to wooing people. And they hadn't failed him yet.

\--

Billy had heard thousands of love songs by the time he was nine years old. His mother loved them--_loved_ them. So much, she sang them everywhere, and would hold his hands as she sang to him and twirled them around their kitchen together. She'd play them in the car, at the beach, in the kitchen, in the shower, while she cleaned, while she worked...

_"Don't you just--wanna go out and meet someone on the boardwalk while this is playing, Billy? It'd be _perfect_, wouldn't it?"_

Billy's mother was the most romantic person he'd ever met--she lived off of it. Breathed it, bled it, daydreamt of it constantly; ignored reality. Ignored it until it nearly killed her, she'd wanted things to be alright so bad. She'd swing her legs in the water on the pier, roll down all the car windows and let her hair blow around everywhere, take Billy camping and sing around their fire--and it had felt so wonderful and happy and dreamy at the time, but when Billy was calling her at 2 in the morning and asking where she was and begging for her to come back, he could barely even understand whatever she'd been hiccuping back to him. He hadn't even been angry at first--just wanted her to come get him and take him to wherever she was driving off towards without Neil; without _Billy_.

_"__Don't you ___**want** me?!"  
  
"Baby, of **course** I do, of course I do--"  
  
"Then come back! I've got everything ready, I'll come out quick and we can go, I'll only be a minute--"

And she'd sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until Billy hung up the phone and did it too.

Billy knew exactly what love was. Love was something that made you feel so so safe, and always made you smile, and made you sing along to the radio while you drove around with the windows down, or while you swung your legs in the water on the pier. He knew _exactly_ what love was.

But he hadn't felt it in going on a decade, and the memory of feeling it warm up his entire being had been smothered by Neil's glacial anger; had choked it out of him until it physically _hurt_ to remember it--to remember his mama, who used to scoop him up in giggles and say she'd never let him go; until she did.

Billy loved love songs (slow, soft, pretty, sweet); but listening to the polar opposite of them (fast, loud, hard, angry) was so much easier.

\--

A sincere attempt at actually romancing someone had never been carried out by Billy. He'd never wanted to. Real, genuine attraction was something Billy had had yet to experience; sometimes he wondered if he would ever. He didn't feel like he needed anyone, he didn't look at people and want to bed them, and he didn't long for or (god forbid) _yearn_ for someone to share his life with. Who would _want_ to, first of all. He wasn't exactly in the best place (was he ever?), and he didn't want anyone, especially someone who was supposed to be that important, to ever have to meet Neil or interact with him at all. And living in the same house as him, where Neil _always_ knew where he was and when he'd be back and if he tried going anywhere else (Neil checked the Camero's miles), would make avoiding him difficult.

So regardless of whether Billy finally met someone he actually liked or not, Billy didn't intend on ever fleshing it out as long as he wasn't somewhere he could cut Neil off forever.

...But meeting the supposed "king" of Hawkins ruined everything--_everything_. Billy's plans, Billy's life, Billy's intentions of never attaching someone to his hip and to his life (like all his mama's songs crooned), and fuckin--Steve Harrington didn't even seem to care.

_"I can help--" _and

_"Well, now you only have to do 50% of all that--" _and

_"Don't worry about it, Hargrove. Mr. Harrington barely notices if a few hundreds go missing, I'll get it--"_

And Billy barely registered how frustrated it made him until it was spilling out and he was almost yelling it.

_"I don't care, Steve, I don't **care**, I'm--the whole point is that it's me, that's its **mine**, and that I don't have to give up half of everything that's mine and mine alone to someone else who can do whatever they want with it, and that I don't owe you anything or have to give you something to take for yourself when you feel like it, the point is that it's something **completely** mine that I made for myself--"_

And the most _annoying_ part of it was that after Billy had unintentionally poured all of his ugly, selfish intentions and solo goals onto Steve when he _knew_ that this rich boy was just _"trying to help--"_ was that Steve didn't even yell back like he would've with anyone else (Billy had learned by now just how fuckin _defensive_ Steve got), he just--seemed to deflate, and his eyes got all sad and sorry looking, and Billy almost wanted to punch him (but god, he would **never**) just to make him _stop_. Steve just--nodded, slow, and oozed understanding.

_"I--get it. Sorry. Just--I just thought it'd be easier on you, where you could get what you were going for faster. But I get it now. Sorry. 'm sorry, Billy."_

He had somehow melted any frustration that Billy had had left that had practically lived in his bones for so long, placing warm, solid weight on his shoulders, and sweeping steady hands across his back.

It was only until halfway through Billy letting Steve give him a hesitant apology of a hug that he realized he'd never been told "sorry" before.

\--

Wooing Billy was fuckin _hard_.

Steve had started to feel like his previous crutch of romance movies did _not_ apply to Billy Hargrove, and perhaps, looking back, they hadn't really applied to _anyone_, had Steve ever actually tried for a serious, long-term relationship.

Jesus, no fuckin wonder Nancy hadn't worked out--he'd been playing on a script that wasn't written for real people, and it was only just now hitting him, as Steve stared from the passenger seat at the profile of Billy, who was driving and tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel while he hummed to the radio.

Steve was beginning to think that he'd never really been in love with Nancy. Loved her, definitely, infatuated for sure--but not really, truly _in_ love with her. He'd wanted to go out for ice cream with her, and coordinate outfits, and make sure everyone knew they were together, so no one would try and hit on either one of them.

But Billy--_God_, Billy...

Steve wanted to give Billy the _world_; he wanted to give Billy a place to relax, and be himself, and laugh openly and not have to be cool _all the goddamn time_. Steve _liked_ that they were different, that Steve wore polos and Nike's and Billy wore leather jackets and boots. He simultaneously wanted everyone to know the real Billy Hargrove (fuckin hilarious, beautiful, soft, cried at romance movies--but only the ones that were actually really good) but he also _relished_ in being the only person who did. Seeing Billy throw easy, genuine, spread-across-your-face smiles at him made him feel like his insides were warm and gooey and soft; not at all like the fireworks and sparks that movies had told him.

Being with Billy made Steve feel so--_calm_. When Billy would let him hold his hand (good days), Steve felt his heart and his mind slow, and his body relax as Billy would rub Steve's knuckles with his thumb (calloused; Steve learned that Billy liked playing guitar).

When Billy wouldn't call him back, and Steve would pry open Billy's window to come check on him and find him with purple splotches on his belly and split open lips (bad days, and bad days to come), Steve felt his heart and his mind race, and every muscle in his body tighten while he sat on Billy's bed and told him every detail about his day that he could remember (Billy didn't like to be touched on bad days; but he liked being talked to). Steve would lie down next to him, and talk and talk and talk--_"Your place will be so nice when you get there, man. Big windows, lots of sunlight, those plants you like everywhere--knowing you, you'll have some big and unnecessary bar installed somewhere--"_ until Billy would fall asleep, and Steve would lie there, and cry for him.

Bad days (sometimes, but not very often, bad weeks) weren't something that made Steve uncomfortable or shy away from; but they were something that made Steve ache. He felt a dull, but almost constant background ache until Billy started suggesting going for drives again, or surprising Steve with little presents again.

_"Thought of you--" _and

_"Seemed like something you prissy, rich boys like--" _and

_"Couldn't think of anything else except, '**God**, this is some real over-the-top Harrington shit--'"_

And getting to watch Billy come back to life after those times always made Steve think how worth everything Billy was, and he _hated_ that it seemed like no one else had been allowed to see inside this boy but Steve; hated it because that implied that Billy hadn't had anyone in his corner until Steve came along. But Steve had seen Billy now, and knew that there was so much inside of Billy for him to give.

Steve had never been in love before, like he'd once thought.

But god, it felt good.

\--

Billy felt the shift--the change, however minimal it was.

Loving someone wasn't some overnight thing that happened like flipping a switch, like all the songs and movies, he thought; it was accumulative, and something that grew and branched out and flourished when it was cared for right.

And Steve was beginning to feel a lot like something that Billy could flourish with, when it was cared for right; and it was.

But The Shift was small, nothing grandiose, not some tear-filled confession with their hands clasped in the car under the stars.

Steve had made him a mixtape, like any good teenaged sweetheart does.

But it was the night after Billy had told Steve about his mom. About her always taking him to the beach, and them being close, and him being a carbon copy of her, and about all of her songs she loved singing along to everywhere she went. Steve had laughed there, not unkindly, and commented about where Billy didn't get his music taste from. Billy had felt the initial stab of indignation, but reminded himself that Steve was no mind-reader, and then shrugged and said that well, he liked some of them. The good ones, anyway.

What he didn't mention was that that was essentially every song he'd heard from her. The woman had good taste, he would still give her that.

Steve had been confused at Billy's lack of bitterness and anger, though, once he got to then end.

_"So she just--just up and took off?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"And you're... /not/ angry about that?"_

_He'd shrugged._

_"I don't blame her or anything."_

_This is where Steve had become angry himself._

_"But she /left/ you there, what kind of mother--"_

_"She /didn't/--it wasn't--" Billy let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding, harshly. "Neil had never--never done anything to me until after she was gone. He'd yell and be loud, but he only ever hurt /her/. She thought--"_

_Steve watched him, eyebrows furrowed and jaw tight, but stayed quiet and listened._

_"She didn't think he'd ever do anything to /me/. Yeah, idealistic and blind, but--I mean, he wasn't always like that until he was. I guess she really overestimated what kind of person Neil was then." Billy tightened his hands into the denim around his knees._

_"She wouldn't have if she thought he would," he said, vaguely. "Neil was the one keeping all their money and she'd just--" He threw a hand loosely into the air and near the radio dial. "Took off with nothing."_

_The line in Steve's forehead was still there, but the anger was--kind of gone. Sympathy etched itself onto his face now, and he leaned back from his place of leaning on the console. He nodded after a moment, hesitant._

_"...Yeah. Yeah, I--think I know what you're saying."_

_Billy allowed a glance towards Steve, searching his face for what he was thinking. Steve looked up, meeting him, and shrugged too tight, expression more pained now._

_"It's thoughtless, though. Maybe not outright malicious, but--" Steve scoffed, shook his head and looked back to the windshield. "You deserved better than that. That--that zero consideration of what /might/ have happened. Maybe Neil hadn't hurt you yet, but /anyone/ would have worried that he /might/." Steve swallowed, and turned back to Billy, eyes looking glassier than they had a moment ago. It threw Billy._

_"You deserve to be worried about, Billy. She should've grabbed you and gone, prepared or not." He reached across the console and tucked Billy's hand into his._

_"She never should've left you in that house."_

_For the first time in 10 years, Billy felt creeping doubt about his mother, and his throat constricted._

_"She didn't--she didn't know--"_

_"I don't /care/. She knew; she guessed. She ignored it and chose to think Neil would /never/. That's on her, Billy. She should've put you in her car with her and never left you there, hoping for the best. It's not her fault that Neil did anything he did, but she should've taken you out of it."_

_The break in Steve's voice was something Billy tried to ignore, but--Christ, Billy was glad the Camaro was dark. He felt warm, wet tears drip onto his cheeks, and he squeezed Steve's hand and looked away into the Camaro's dashboard lights. He didn't say anything else, one way or the other; just sat in the dark holding Steve's hand, and began feeling the traces of anger and doubt drip into his mind that he'd been pushing aside and rationalizing all those years--that his happy, kind, mama who danced him around the room and sang to him after she fought with Neil had left him there. With Neil._

_Billy let himself think what he hadn't allowed himself to since he was 9._

_It wasn't fair._

_But it made him feel better that Steve clearly thought so too._


End file.
